Page 14 - The Mermaid Call

She spotted me.
She didn’t laugh.
Her mouth drew into a thin line like she was gripping a row of sewing pins between her
lips.
Straightaway, my stomach dropped like an anchor, filling more than potato-heavy. I
knew that look well, the same look when Belle our ancient gerbil died a year ago; the same look as . . . last time Mum was coming.
Which meant I already knew what she was going to say through the glass even before she opened her mouth. I looked away, back at the lake, a sudden urge to plunge into the cold water (if only you could outswim a lake), anything to get away from –
“Your mum called. I’m sorry, Vivien. She’s cancelled again.”
My dreams of summer fizzed and dissolved like a chemistry experiment gone wrong. I refocussed my eyes on the window. From Mimi and her shiny plait to my own
reflection: frizzy hair and too-broad shoulders.
Mum wasn’t coming – because I just wasn’t good enough.